Just Keep Coming Home

Having five sons is not for the faint of heart.

I thought this as I watched my middle son haul two bags, a tent, a poncho, a sleeping bag, and probably some other equipment up the lawn to our church on his way to a week-long scout camp.  I watched him until he was completely out of sight.  Then, like mothers everywhere, I thought to myself, "That's the last time I'll see him until Saturday," and, "I hope that's not the last time I see him," and, "He'll be fine."

He is not the first son I have let go to scout camp, and he is not the last.  My smallest son ran up to me at that point and hugged me around the middle, throwing back his head in a wide smile that let me see his teeth growing in.  I sighed.

Not only will I have to cope with the feelings tugging my heartstrings today, but I will in the future for this little one, and his other brother.  And who knows how many scout camps each of them will have?  Every son has seven camps, every camp has seven. . . .

It has not escaped my notice over the years that boys disappear or are killed each summer at scout camps.

And then, the worst thought of all entered my mind as I shut the front door.  What if I ever had to send any of them--let alone more than one--to war?

So, the self-talk I will have to do all week--that I have to do over one thing or another a lot in my life--begins.  They will be fine.  I have done all I can.  They are smart kids.  Their leaders will be careful.  God will protect them.  What else can I do?  I want them to grow up, don't I?  I want them to become capable, self-confident men.

So, I went off to get dressed and begin my day.

And, I heard a voice.  The voice of my middle son, in the kitchen.

I came back out to see him.  He and my husband were busily packing him a lunch.  "That went by a lot faster than I thought it would," I joked, then washed an apple for him and reached into the cookie jar for a double-dose of his favorite cookies. "You know mothers do things like watch you until you completely disappear, don't you, son?"  I smiled at him.  "And think dramatic things.  And then, when you come back, they have to do it all over again."

He giggled at me.  As we all should.

I wrote his name on the bag, but, instead of writing that cute name I had picked out for him in large, cute letters with serifs and a smiley face all across the front, I printed it in a small and rather masculine hand on one side.  One must respect one's son's man-growth.

He left again, and I went back into my room for shoes.

I heard his voice again and came out.

"I forgot some more stuff," he said, filling a water bottle.

This going to scout camp of his hasn't been so bad, after all.  "Just keep coming home," I told him, squeezing in one more hug, "and I'll be fine."